


Gold Hair, Gold Thread

by Fire_BornOfIce



Series: Edda [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-29 03:11:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14463735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_BornOfIce/pseuds/Fire_BornOfIce
Summary: Slighted by Sif, Loki seeks revenge. Part one of my shoehorning Norse mythology into the backstory of the Marvel films. Infinity War made me do it.





	1. Gold Hair

Loki rarely sees red.

He’s heard stories about berserkers, passed down by someone who heard from a friend whose father fought with a soldier who said he once glimpsed one on the battlefield.

And he’s read stories, plenty of them. Silly, childish stories he’s too old for now, but that would send children skittering for the safety of their beds, yet still eager to hear more.

He’s never seen a real one, but he knows from what he’s heard that it starts with anger. The pent up rage of battle, unleashed in a blind whirlwind where one does not recognise friend from foe.

When he imagines a berserker caught in the rage, he pictures Thor. There are moments, in the heat of training, where he truly thinks his brother might have it in him. But not him. Not skinny, gangling, awkward Loki. Not sneaky, tricky, magic using Loki. He’s about as far from a berserker as you can get.

In this moment, however, he thinks he might have it in him.

And it isn’t even the words that left Sif’s mouth. He’s heard most of them before. Whispered when people think he cannot hear. Shouted at him by the latest bumbling idiot he’s knocked into the dust because he knows tactics win battles, not raw strength. It isn’t even _that_ word. Not really. Though if anyone’s called him _ergi_ before (and they probably have) it wasn’t anywhere he could hear it. No. That just made him freeze.

It’s the fact that Thor is laughing.

That’s what makes his fingers clench tight around the handle of the knife that he called to his hand without thinking. That’s what makes him imagine for one sweet second plunging the blade over and over into flesh. He’s just not sure which one of them deserves it more.

But he knows he cannot land a blow on Thor without magic. Probably not Sif either. And using magic would just prove her right. Loki pushes the rage aside and stalks away.

…

A few years ago, he’d have locked himself in his room and stayed there instead of showing up to dinner. But he’s not a child anymore. He came of age not too long ago. Besides, locking himself away would be like letting Sif win, and Loki can’t have that.

It’s easy to pretend it’s all water under the bridge. Easy to smile and laugh and eat and drink with Thor and Thor’s friends, as if none of them have ever said a bad word about him. Lies get easier the more you tell them, Loki’s learned. Loki tells a lot of lies.

And yet he cannot bring himself to speak to Thor. Not directly, at least. Every time he hears his brother laugh, it’s a sting at his heart, because Thor laughed when Sif called him all those dreadful things. Thor has teased, he’s joked, but he’s never laughed when anyone else said horrible things about Loki. But he laughed when Sif said it.

He only laughed because he likes her, Loki thinks. That doesn’t make him feel better, though. It just makes him more angry, because Thor is letting stupidity, and his damned cock, stop him from protecting his brother.

The goblet in Loki’s hand froths and foams, before it boils over, spilling red hot over his own hand. Loki closes his eyes and grits his teeth through the burning.

It’s Sif’s fault. She started this. She looks so silly, he thinks. Those perfect golden curls. Like a princess from a story book. The curls actually bounce when she walks. How can anyone take her seriously, out on the battlefield, looking like that? And yet they respect her prowess as a warrior more than Loki’s! How is that fair? And Thor just stares at her. He’s practically drooling. Vile.

Let them have at it. They are just as bad as each other. A perfect couple.

Loki cannot take it anymore. He shoves his chair back and excuses himself. He has a wounded hand to nurse.

He hardly makes it out of the hall before Thor’s hand is on his shoulder, so familiar that Loki knows it’s him before he even turns. He forces a smile, and holds his burned hand in such a way that Thor won’t see there’s a problem.

‘I saw you looking at her,’ says Thor. His breath smells of mead, but he’s still in control of his senses, because he’s keeping his voice low, a secret between brothers.

‘Who?’ Loki asks, innocent as anything. If his ill intentions are coming across so strong that even a love-blind Thor notices…

‘Lady Sif,’ Thor answers. ‘You could barely keep your eyes off her.’ Loki’s heart freezes. He isn’t often afraid of his brother, but sometimes he worries… Thor does tend to act without thinking.

Then Thor’s face splits with a beaming grin. He shakes Loki’s shoulder with a firm, encouraging grip.

‘It’s alright, brother. I know in the past I’ve had a habit of, well, swooping in before you get a chance. I just want you to know, if you want her, I’ll back off.’

He wanders off before Loki can think up a reply. Sif is the last person Loki wants in his bed, even before today, and she probably thinks the same about him. Still, it does give the trickster a little satisfaction to think about Thor going to bed alone tonight, with only an imagined Lady Sif and his own hand for company.

Loki doesn’t have time to dwell on his brother’s frustrations, however. He has plans.

…

He does not put them into action that night, nor the night after. There has to be a decent amount of time between the slight and the revenge, otherwise he’ll be blamed.

 _She’ll blame you anyway_ , he thinks.

 _I don’t care_ , he tells himself, and believes it.

On the chosen day, he sets out everything he needs, and stows them in a hidden pocket to be retrieved later.

Thor and his friends have planned to go out drinking. Sif is invited, as is Loki. No one asked Loki but it is expected that when Thor is invited, his brother is therefore invited too. He does not always take up the invitation, but on this occasion he does. Thor sees him, glances towards Sif and winks. So, he still thinks that’s where his brother’s intentions lie. Loki just smiles, confirming nothing. Denying nothing.

Loki tries to enjoy himself whilst also focusing on the plan. They go to a cosy tavern. Drink, sing, listen to stories. But he also has to concentrate on Sif. Luckily, Thor is predictable. When midnight has passed and Sif yawns, his brother calls for one last round of drinks. Loki offers to help in passing them round, and so can easily slip a drop from a vial, carefully concealed in his hand, into Sif’s ale. It’s merely a draught to encourage deep and revitalising, dreamless sleep. He often uses it himself, or slips it into Thor’s last drink of the night to discourage a grumbling morning drizzle. She’ll wake very refreshed in the morning, with no hangover. She’d be thanking Loki if not for what else he had planned.

It’s the sort of night were most of them withdraw to tavern rooms instead of home. Some with company, some not. Loki retires alone. So, he’s surprised to see, does Thor. Does the thought of Sif still trouble him too much?

He bides his time. The potion needs to kick in. An hour. Another half. That will do.

Loki changes his appearance. A tavern girl. He makes the hair blonde and curled, out of some sick spite. Getting into Sif’s room is the matter of a simple spell. Tavern doors are never securely locked.

From his secret pocket he pulls a pair of shears.

Sif is lying on her side, her back to the door, her hair splayed out over the pillow. It’s almost too perfect. Loki closes the door. It is safer to stay in another shape, but he cannot help himself. He wants to be himself whilst he does this. He kneels down beside the bed and sets to work. Every pretty lock of hair falls to the floor, scatters on the pillow. Nothing remains.

He’s almost done when he sees movement on the other side of the bed. Sif isn’t alone!

He casts the illusion back over himself, backing to the door, desperately silent.

He recognises that figure.

Thor is in Sif’s bed.

Loki has already rushed back to his and screamed obscenities into his own pillow until his voice is raw before he realises he dropped the shears.


	2. Gold Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had to improvise a little because Mjolnir and Gugnir clearly already exist in this universe.

‘LOKI!’

It’s not the first time the trickster has woken to his brother’s roar. Loki blinks away sleep, pushing himself up on sleep-weak arms, blinking away the blur just in time to see the door burst open. What is the time? When he’d returned to his room last night he’d given himself two drops of his sleeping potion. Deep sleep was an effective alibi.

He has no time to properly wake before Thor has him by the collar, dragging him from the bed, kicking and groaning across the room and into the hall.

‘Let me go!’ he cries, groggy with sleep. ‘What are you doing?’

Thor opens the door to Sif’s room with his free arm.

‘Look! Look at this!’ He thrusts Loki into the dark room, but keeps his grip on his brother’s collar.

The evidence of last night’s exploits litter the floor. The golden curls aren’t so pretty anymore, scattered over the floor like this. He bites down his smile. Oh, he wishes he could see Sif right now.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘Hair!’ Thor yells. ‘Sif’s hair!’

Loki scans the floor. He can’t see the shears anywhere. Maybe he imagined he dropped them. It was late, and dark, and he had rushed out.

‘I know you did this,’ Thor growls into Loki’s ear, and Loki shudders.

‘What am I supposed to have done, brother? Let me go.’ At last he’s able to throw off Thor’s grip, and turns on his brother. ‘Are you still drunk?’ For a second he fears that Thor saw him in the night. But if he had, surely he’d have acted there and then? Why wait until the morning?

There’s no proof. No need to be afraid. Loki leaves the room. ‘Where is Sif? If she has a problem with me, she can accuse me herself.’

Sif is nowhere to be seen. Not in the hallway, or the tavern, or the stables. She doesn’t join them outside, or on the way back to the palace.

Loki wonders if Thor really had slept with her. He had been drunk, and she had been both drunk and succumbing to his potion. Surely they couldn’t have…

At last Loki has a chance to slip out of Thor’s sight, going at once to his own chamber. He isn’t there long, though, just enough time to splash his face with water and change into new clothes before a servant knocks at the door, to tell him he’s been summoned to the Allfather’s private office.

Thor is there, and Fandral and Hogun and, at long last, Sif. She wears a hooded cloak, so Loki cannot see the damage done, but he can feel the sharp stab of her gaze. When Loki enters the room, everyone looks to Odin, so it is clear they were waiting for the trickster to show up.

‘Why was I summoned here?’ he asks.

Thor speaks before Odin can open his mouth. ‘Don’t play games, brother. If you admit what you’ve done, you’ll spare yourself punishment.’

Loki spreads his arms and looks to his father instead. ‘I’ve done nothing, Father, I have no idea what he’s talking about. And besides-‘ He spares Thor a glance, ‘who are you to declare a punishment, brother?’

Now Sif steps forwards. ‘He’s talking about this!’

She yanks down the hood and the sight is more ghastly and more sweet than Loki dreamed. Her hair is shorn awkwardly and unevenly, leaving only stubble and strands like straw. No more pretty golden curls. She’ll have to get the whole thing properly shaved if she ever wants it to look good again, and when it does grow…

‘You did this! You crept into my room and cut off my hair? Why?’ she demands, red with anger. ‘Why?’

And that hurts, more than the accusation. She doesn’t even remember what she did. What she said.

Loki looks Odin in his eye. ‘I did no such thing.’

Sif smiles.

Thor reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of shears.

‘These are the same design as your knives, Loki,’ he says, with triumph in his voice. ‘If you had just admitted to it, brother… But you had to lie.’

He’s caught. It’s over. Loki could plead, could beg forgiveness, but he won’t. Sif never begged him. So instead he laughs.

‘Yes! I did it! I cut off your stupid hair, Lady Sif.’ He advances on her, but Fandral and Hogun grab him by the arms, holding him back. It’s satisfying to see her shrink from him. ‘You deserved it. But it’s only hair. I didn’t hurt you. It’s done now. I hardly see what I can do to atone.’

‘Bring it back!’ yelled Sif. ‘You’re a witch, you can do that!’

Loki flinches. He’s a sorcerer, not a witch. ‘Witch’ is a foul insult, for charlatans who ruse vulnerable fools with false magic.

‘I cut it with blade, not with spell. I can’t reverse it.’

‘So make it grow back!’

‘Oh, it will grow back.’ Loki starts to laugh again, and it’s ugly, cruel. ‘But not as it once was. No more pretty gold curls. No, it will grow night black, and straight. Like mine.’

He throws back his head and howls with laughter.

Odin orders him locked in his room until he’s calmed down. Then it will be decided what shall happen next.

…

Hours later, there is a knock at the door. Loki opens it only because he knows it is his mother on the other side. She sits beside him, puts an arm around him, strokes his hair.

‘It was a foolish thing you did.’

‘I know.’

‘You had a reason?’

‘I did.’

‘Do you want to tell me?’

Loki closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

‘Not right now.’

Frigga nods in understanding. Her son is still growing, going through that phase where his thoughts are a turmoil. His reasons might be malicious or nonsensical, but they make sense to him. That does not mean he can avoid the consequences.

‘Sif’s father demands a weregild, threefold the weight of the hair Sif has lost.’

Loki nods. That’s understandable, but hair weighs very little. It will be simple to pay.

‘Your Father will not offer it from the royal coffers, nor your allowance. You must pay it yourself.

That is trickier. Loki does not horde gold. The things most personal and precious to him are objects of use, rather than trinkets that just sit and look pretty. His vanity is focused on himself. His own face, his own hair, which he will not cut off just to make Sif happy. Yes he has his helm, and the designs woven into his clothing, but they are armour. They have practical purpose. Loki is also under no illusions that they are irreplaceable. And the symbols would mean nothing to Sif. All else he has of value are books and spellcraft things, which would mean even less to her.

‘I know what I shall do,’ he says. ‘I’ll set out today.’

…

When Loki travels alone, it is not often by Bifrost. Today is different. He wants to be seen going on this quest to put right what he supposedly did wrong.

He’s dressed simply. No royal flourishes today. A long cloak with a hood hides his face in shadow. He salutes to Heimdall as he passes and receives a nod of acknowledgement, and the guardian starts the Bifrost. He already knows where Loki is headed.

…

‘Mama. Why do we call them dwarves?’

‘Because they dwarf all other beings with their size, my love,’ Frigga explains.

The young prince’s eyes widen. ‘Even giants?’

Frigga thinks for a second. ‘Yes. Some giants.’

,,,

Loki is clever. Loki is cunning. Loki is sly. Dwarves are all these things too, he knows, but they are also greedy. A flaw, Loki also knows, is what must be manipulated to make the best mischief. Loki thinks that by exploiting the greed of the dwarves he can fetch Sif new hair and more without spending a single coin.

‘Oh, wise and noble Eitri,’ he calls. The king of the dwarves soon emerges, drawn by praise. His brother, Brokk, at his side. He drops to one knee. ‘I wish to strike up a deal. There are some things that I need. Treasures, required by Asgard.’

Eitri stokes his scraggly beard. He has no idea he’s speaking to the prince. Cloaked and hooded, Loki might as well be a humble soldier.

‘Treasures we can make in abundance. Weapons, jewels and much more. But what can Asgard give in return?’

Loki runs his tongue around his mouth. Offering gold would be pointless, Eitri has no need of it, and Loki has little to offer anyway.

‘How about a wager?’ he suggests. ‘I have heard you are fond of games. Odin has proposed a contest. He who can craft the finest treasure judged by Asgard shall have whatever he desires. I have come to you and Odin has sent another man to…’ He quickly thinks. Eitri crafted Mjolnir, but another dwarf made Gugnir. Who was that? ‘To Ivaldi.’ He really hopes that dwarf still lives.

‘The sons of Ivaldi are fine craftsmen, but not half as fine as myself and my brothers!’ Eitri laughs. ‘This will be an easy wager to win. But tell me, Asgardian, what stake you have in this. I sense nervousness. Is it your own year’s wages at stake?’

Loki does not know what possesses him to say it, but once it is out of his mouth it cannot be undone. ‘My head is the wager. If you lose the contest, I give my head. If Ivaldi’s sons lose, the other man gives his.’

Dwarves like a bit of blood and guts in their wagers. They see enough gold, blood is the only thing that excites them. And Loki is absolutely determined not to loose.

Eitri smiles. ‘Very well. Any requests?’

‘A weapon,’ says Loki, ‘Of any sort. An item of great use. And a cap of hair, woven from the finest gold. By dawn. The judge will arrive then.’

They spit into their hands and shake, sealing the wager, and whilst Eitri gathers the metals and Brokk pumps the star-heated bellows, Loki hurries away to the sons of Ivaldi.

He makes them the same offer. A contest, his head the wager, for three fine items. He orders some fine jewellery (for mother), another item of useful value (for whom he cares not) and a set of throwing knives (for himself). If he has to get new hair for Sif, he might as well please the rest of Asgard and get something for himself into the bargain.

He waits for dawn in the guise of a fruit fly, and amuses himself by buzzing around the heads of Brokk and the sons of Ivaldi, biting at their arms and humming in their ears. Then he settles in a hidden place, throws off his cloak and strides with confidence to the agreed judging place, his prince’s garments materialising around him.

‘I have come to judge the contest of items fit for Asgard. Bring them to me,’ he says. The dwarves bring the things they have made as he continues. ‘I shall take the winning items with me to Asgard, and the winner shall have the head of the man who chose the wrong dwarf craftsman. Now is the day we finally settle who is the better treasure maker.’

Eitri narrows his eyes and Ivaldi’s oldest son glares. Loki clears his throat. ‘Now, if we could begin…’

Ivaldi’s sons present their treasures first. There are the knives, which Loki rests on his own wrist and tosses tip over handle to test. The balance is perfect. He wishes to pocket them at once, but that can wait. Next is a silken ship sail, soft and as fine as a spider’s web, but strong as iron.

‘If you unfurl the sail, a ship will be uncovered,” the oldest son of Ivaldi explains. Loki takes his word for it. The items are lovely enough, he trusts that to be true. Loki smiles. With this alone his head is safe, even if he had already prepared for that eventuality.

Last, the youngest son brings forth a glittering necklace, dripping with gems. ‘This is Brisingamen. The finest jewel in the nine realms.’

Eitri snorts. ‘Ah, but see what my brother and I have crafted.’

He pulls forth what looks like a plain gold band. Loki raises an unimpressed eyebrow. He thought the dwarf king was better than this. But he will hear Eitri out, for the amusement. ‘Go on…’

‘This is Draupnir. Beautiful on its own, but on every ninth night it shall multiply into nine more. Asgard’s treasury will only grow with this in its company.’

Grow, thinks Loki, and completely devalue Asgard’s gold, thereby increasing Eitri’s in value. Clever. Clever and foul.

Next is the golden hair. It is quite gorgeous. Nicer, even, than Sif’s old curls. Loki wants to throw it into a fire and watch it melt.

Finally, Brokk emerges, dragging behind him something that makes Loki’s jaw drop. A writhing, struggling, enormous boar. A living boar, make entirely from gold.

‘Wild as this beast is now, for the right Aesir warrior he will make the most loyal war steed there ever was,’ Brokk boasts.

Loki’s mouth goes dry.

He claps his hands together. Time to put his words to the test.

‘Thank you, thank you, gentlemen. These are all fine items, fine indeed. I feel unworthy to be the judge of such a contest.’ He bows low. ‘In fact, I am an unworthy judge. Better to present these things to Odin himself and let him decide. Now, if you’d let me gather the treasures, I’ll be on my way, and send a man to alert you of the winner as soon as-‘

‘Wait.’

Loki freezes; Draupnir hanging off one wrist, the golden cap clutched in his other hand.

‘You are deceiving us,’ says Eitri.

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

A huge hand clamps down on Loki’s shoulder, and he drops what he’s holding.

‘Don’t think we do not know your reputation as a liar, a trickster,’ growls Brokk.

‘You appeared to us both,’ says Ivaldi’s oldest son. ‘Meaning to declare a draw and steal our gifts.’

‘Never…’ Loki backs away, but there are dwarves on all sides.

‘Seize him’ Eitri’s command is answered immediately. Loki throws back his head to call the Bifrost, but the dwarves are fast for their size. The hapless trickster is pinned, face down, to the ground before he can get a word out.

Brokk leans down, and his breath is hot and reeks. ‘I believe you promised us your head.’

‘I meant my head’s weight in gold, you fool,’ Loki hisses, struggling against the strong hands. ‘Surely you know the expression?’

‘You should have made that clearer,’ Brokk laughs. There is a horrible sound. The mixed tones of horrid laughter from multiple dwarves, and metal scraping against metal as some weapon is dragged towards them.

Loki’s struggles increase. ‘You can’t! I… I promised only my head. If you cut any part of my neck, or spill any drop of blood, the deal is void.’

The noise partially stops. The weapon is not being dragged anymore, but the chuckles continue.

‘You’ve got a smart mouth,’ Eitri drawls. ‘It will get you into trouble someday.’

Loki tries his best to look up. ‘I am a son of Odin. My death will bring down the wrath of all of Asgard upon you.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ said Eitri. ‘I won’t order your death today. I’m not stupid. Turn him over.’

Loki is flipped onto his back. Brokk is leaning right over him, and there’s something in his hand. Its metal, but Loki can’t quite make it out.

‘You rely on that silver tongue don’t you, trickster? How will you fare without it?’

‘You can’t cut out my tongue,’ Loki says, voice trembling. ‘My father will never come to you for treasures again.’

‘We don’t need the Allfather’s custom,’ replies Brokk. ‘But no. I won’t cut out your tongue. It is far more satisfying to think of it squirming inside your mouth, desperate to speak but unable to make a sound.’

He brings the thing in his hand close enough for Loki to see, and his struggles increase threefold.

‘No!’ He twists and kicks, yelling at Eitri. ‘You can’t! Make him stop! Make him stop!’

But Eitri is already walking away. He has washed his hands of the trickster.

Strong hands hold his jaw shut.

 _I won’t scream. I won’t cry_.

He breaks the first promise when the needle pierces his lower lip.

He breaks the second by the third stitch.

When it’s done they don’t dwell on the aftermath. They leave the silenced prince surrounded by the treasures he commissioned.

Loki raises his hands to his lips, and feels the tight stitches. He flicks his hand to summon a blade to cut them.

The knife does not come. He tries again, and again he fails. He feels the thread, wincing as they pull at his damaged skin, his torn lips. There’s magic woven into it, a special magic that prevents him from using his own. He cannot summon a portal, or call for Bifrost. He’s stranded.

The golden boar nudges him with its nose. It’s calmer now. It does not run or attack when Loki takes gold of its bristly fur and hides his face in it until the tears have stopped.

He grabs the cap of golden hair and throws it as far as he can, into the vacuum of space. No one can have it now.

Eventually, after so many hours, Bifrost lights the sky. Heimdall must have seen and called for Odin himself. His father stands over him, offers his hand, helps Loki to his feet. He looks at the treasures scattered around them. He looks at the golden thread.

‘You have done your penance. This chapter is closed.’

Loki follows him into the rainbow light, pulling up his hood so no one on the other side will see.

…

The first thing he does when he gets back to his own room and grab a knife and try to cut the thread but it is strong as steel, and no blade he tries will even fray it, not even an enchanted one. The thread repels magic. On closer inspection he sees the tiny runes flowing across the surface.

He cannot stay hidden forever. Luckily no one laughs when they first see him like this, and anyone who looks like they might is quickly silenced by Thor’s glares. It’s enough to almost make Loki forgive, but he will not forget.

Sif’s hair grows back. Black and straight, just as Loki had promised. She doesn’t look as bad as he’d hoped, but she’s not as confident as before, and not hanging off Thor either. That is enough to make him smile. Or he would, if his mouth could move at all without pain.

One day he sees in the mirror that the thread has lost some of its sheen. It’s greying. And with its lustre, so goes its power. Loki grabs his knife and slices the threads away without care for his own flesh.

That’s where Frigga finds him, bent over the basin in his bathroom, blood flowing down his chin. She takes him in her arms and picks the last threads out. He croaks and wheezes, unable to speak properly after going so long without a voice.

‘It’s okay my love. It’s okay.’

Loki looks towards his reflection, marred by holes around his lips, and buries his face again.

‘The scars will fade,’ says Frigga.

And he lets himself believe it.


End file.
